The tent's roof swam in the mercenary's vision. He struggled to remember exactly how he had gotten there—the last thing he could recall was the clash of steel and the rush of battle.

The pain in his gut plucked at his sleeve as if shyly attempting to remind him of something important.

Right, Raven thought with a grimace. The battle.

He had never underestimated the Black Fang, having seen firsthand the speed and efficiency that they fought with. Despite that, Raven had not faced them under a truly able commander before—no one in their small army had. To stumble into the midst of an ambush, fighting troops personally trained by the son of the Fang's founder, had been bad enough. Having to fight Lloyd himself called for a level of skill that they didn't possess. It had taken four of them to bring the infamous White Wolf down, and the vicious slash that tore Raven's abdomen open attested to the difficulty of that endeavor.

He gritted his teeth, cold embarrassment washing over him. He had been trained by Cornwell's own weapons master, had learned the rules of combat through his mercenary career, and had trained to peak condition amongst Eliwood's Elite. He made a name for himself in the Badon gladiatorial arena, stormed Dragon's Gate, and singlehandedly held the west wing of Castle Ostia against Euban's Mercenaries. It had taken Lloyd less than ten seconds to disarm him and knock him flat on his back with a near-fatal injury. Raven could piece together the rest easily enough; he had passed out and been carried back to the medic's tent for further healing.

His father would have been appalled. Powerful, proud, Bradford Cornwell refused to abide anyone babying him. To see his son so thoroughly disgraced in battle and bereft of his dignity would have been enough to shame the man into silence.

Determined not to make his inglorious situation any worse, Raven moved to sit up. Even if he had already made a fool of himself, he would not be treated like an invalid! The movement sent pain tearing through him, drawing a soft gasp of sympathy from the only other conscious occupant of the tent. Preoccupied with his self-recrimination, Raven had not noticed anyone else. Regardless, he was not surprised in the slightest to see Lucius perched on the edge of the cot next to his, worry creasing his brow.

"Hovering like a mother hen, are you, Lucius?" he muttered. He knew it was churlish to dump his irritation at himself onto his friend, and it was a far cry from the code of chivalry that his etiquette instructor had drilled into his head. Bereft of any constructive way to channel his anger, however, Lucius made a fair target.

"I wouldn't need to if you didn't get yourself into so much trouble, milord," he replied mildly. "If you had only listened to—What do you think you're doing?"

Raven was, in fact, attempting to dress himself to leave. No good warrior would be put out of commission by a simple scratch, after all. He gingerly attempted to pull his shirt over his head to hide the bloodstained bandages and to protect him from the harsh Bernian chill. Immediately, he dropped the garment, breath catching in his throat as pain, hot as dragonfire, tore into him.

Lucius winced, on his feet in an instant. The look on his face was nearly as pained as the one his lord wore, sympathy playing an urgent requiem on his heartstrings. He hastened over to Raven's side, attempting to pry his hands from the wound.

"You're going to hurt yourself!"

"I…can do it," Raven said, yet the sweat that beaded on his brow belied the conviction in his words.

"Milord…" Lucius started.

"Leave me be," he growled. "I don't need anyone's help, least of all yours."

"Please, you'll reopen your wound. Pride or not, I cannot in good conscience allow you to do that. Even if you insist upon this foolish course of action, you'll only cost the army more resources in your healing, and then you'll be left out of even more of the fighting! Is that truly what you want, Lord Raymond?"

If looks could kill, his bedsheets would have spontaneously burst into flame. Lucius's argument was too logical for Raven to glare at him, yet he hated that very same logic; it caged him, changing the situation into one that it would be ignoble to attempt to flee from. He hated Lucius's ability to twist his thoughts and words into a solid argument against whatever course of action he had already committed himself to. For all that Raven could outfight the majority of their army, he could never outthink Lucius, and that fact needled him every time he remembered it.

"Can you even walk that far?" the monk continued, voice soft and gentle.

"I will," Raven returned. It was not a question of ability—ability could be changed by sheer determination, capability thrown by the wayside in the fact of Cornwell mettle. Injury or not, Raven was indeed convinced that he could walk halfway across the camp to his tent, and he said as much.

"Perhaps normally, yes, but I would not attempt that here. It's snowed nearly up to my knees out there. You would die, milord!"

"I'll be fine."

In an effort to prove his point, he bent over and pulled his boots towards him. The snow wouldn't pose a problem as long as he had shoes on, rendering Lucius's argument entirely invalid. His satisfaction vanished like sand scattered to the wind, however, as agony wracked his body. He shivered, breath coming in short, staccato gasps and a splash of fresh blood blossoming on his bandages.

Lucius gently pushed him back, blue eyes narrowed in a manner that brooked no disobedience. He changed Raven's bandages with the swift efficiency of a trained medic, keeping up a steady stream of reproaches and I-told-you-sos as he did. The mercenary remained in sullen silence, unable to deny the validity of Lucius's words.

As the other tied off the bandage, he announced, "Don't think a scolding is going to convince me to stay here, Lucius. I can't waste my time here. If another fight breaks out, I need to be ready to be right on the front lines."

"You do not need to make up for any perceived fault last battle, milord. You'll recover quickest if you simply hold still and get your rest," he argued.

"I don't need to explain myself. Do I truly need to repeat myself? No words of yours will sway me!"

"Fine," Lucius said simply, dropping to one knee. Ignoring Raven's incredulous demands, he forced the mercenary's feet into his boots, carefully lacing them up. Livid, embarrassed, Raven looked away and attempted to pretend that there was nothing wrong. Lucius was his servant, after all, and it was the role of a servant to handle tasks below the notice of a lord…yet it had been years since he had been a lord, and even then, he never would have tolerated someone dressing him. In that particular case, he knew he couldn't—the blinding pain from earlier served testament to that—and so he had the grace not to complain.

"There you go."

Raven attempted to offer some modicum of praise, but the words stuck in his throat, and so he gruffly nodded. Perceptive as he was, Lucius plucked his prior concerns from his mind with the ease of a farmer picking berries, the corners of his mouth drooping in a frown. Raven wanted to yell at him to worry about himself rather than constantly pestering him, but Lucius would never listen to him; he downplayed the sickness that made him gasp for breath and fight to even remain standing, downplayed the injuries he received in battle, and downplayed the hardships he had endured in his life out of fear of burdening others. Privately, Raven thought him a hypocrite for preaching things he himself did not believe, yet he was unwilling to face the argument he would face should he say so in as many words.

Instead, he pulled himself to his feet, itching to leave behind the stuffy tent and his anxious friend. The ground swayed dangerously under him and he lurched to the side, leaning heavily against the tent pole to keep his balance. Raven spat a low curse. He knew in that second that he could not even stand upright on his own, let alone make it across the frozen campground. The mercenary bitterly ground his teeth. He had fought through innumerable battles and problems on his own. Why should one little scratch make any difference?

Before he had a chance to dwell on that question, Lucius was at his side, a hand laid consolingly on his shoulder.

"If you are truly so deadset on this course of action, at least allow me to assist you," he softly said. Forestalling any arguments, he added, "It's tantamount to suicide to venture out alone, Lord Raymond."

He looped Raven's arm around his neck and stepped away from the tent pole in the same movement. Pulled away from the only thing maintaining his balance, Raven was left with two choices: fall in a crumpled heap to the floor or rely upon Lucius's aid. Swallowing his pride, he chose the less humiliating of the two and braced himself against his friend.

Smiling grimly, Lucius staggered out the tent flap with Raven in tow.

The journey, although short, was hard on both of them. Even with Lucius's aid, Raven couldn't take a step without gritting his teeth in pain; Lucius sweated and gasped for breath. They stumbled into their shared tent, trading breathless, triumphant smiles, before Raven broke free of Lucius's grasp and collapsed onto his bedroll.

He watched Lucius cough weakly and crumple to the floor, his face flushed a dark red. As frail as he was, Raven had difficulty imagining that Lucius had offered as much help as he had.

But could I have actually made it back here on my own…? Raven wondered. If I'm this tired with his help…

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say yes, he could've hiked up one of the jagged Bernese mountains if he wanted to, but he was not usually inclined to lie, even to himself.

I couldn't have done this on my own. Some pathetic wound kept me from working through it alone, even thoughI've worked through anything and everythingon my ownbefore—!

He froze, an idea striking him upside the head with the force of a catapulted boulder. No…he couldn't do this on his own…

…because he hadn't made it through the nightmarish two years since the fall of his house on his own. He hadn't pulled through this far through pride or his sword or even his own strength—always, always, Lucius had been at his side, offering his own advice and aid. The redhead's eyes flickered over to the other, humbled. Even pride had a breaking point, he suddenly understood, yet somehow the friendship that he had unexpectedly developed with his once-servant had surpassed that. So, as he lay hurt and helpless, Raven found himself unable to resent the situation he was stuck in—unable to resent it because this was as much a part of him as his pride was.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything."